


Give and Take

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When one's will is not one's own, one must learn to - with as much grace as he is capable - make the best of it.It was common practice for those of noble blood to be betrothed to others of similar rank. In some instances for mere power and wealth, but in most cases it was to secure an alliance. Lords Holmes and Watson were no exception to this.





	1. Chapter 1

Leaves and branches rustled and swayed in a sea of overwhelming green. Birds chirped to one another from their high perches. Critters scrambled across the ground, collecting their nuts and berries to store in their secret hideaways.

In the wood of Allermire, two young men sat high in the trees. Their legs folded around the branches upon which they sat, securing their positions. One looked across the small clearing to the other and nodded. Arrows whistled through the air. Two high-pitched squeals rang out, and the remaining creatures bounded from the clearing, twigs and leaves crunching beneath them. The men observed their catch, one nocking another arrow at the twitch of a hare’s ears. His arms relaxed when the motion failed to repeat.

The sun was meeting the horizon when the castle gates opened. Two men came riding in, their horses slowing to a mere trot. Their freshly-caught game jostled against the ribs of their mares. One man muttered something to the other, who laughed with such unrestrained joy that a few of the surrounding guardsmen couldn’t help but smirk underneath their helms.

“I maintain that you held back,” the broader of the two said as he slung his leg from over the saddle, stepping down onto the ground. Hay was strewn all over the stable floor. He untied his hare from the saddle and held it by its ankles. Sections of fur were soaked in drying blood.

“Maintain all you wish, Victor, but my reply remains unchanged,” the other said with a grin. He began working on the knot of thin rope on his saddle, his fingers stopping only at the clearing of his friend’s throat. “What?” he asked.

A boy no older than fourteen had stopped to stand in front of the stables. He held his hand over the lower half of his face. His cap marked him as one of the castle’s messengers. “Lord Holmes?” he asked, timidly leaning into view.

Victor looked to him with a raised brow. “Does he mean to call you out of the stables?”

“He does – it’s the stench, I’d wager. Could you tend to this?” He motioned to the hare that was hanging from the saddle. “If he carries a message from my brother, I’ll be gone some time yet.”

The man nodded.

“My thanks.” He left the stable to meet the boy, sighing in the open air. “Have you a message from my brother?”

The boy shook his head, his eyes affixed to the ground. His straw-coloured hair fell into his eyes. “No, my lord. Lady Holmes summons you to the library. She said it was of utmost importance.”

He looked down at himself. The right leg of his trousers was stained with a few trails of blood. They would have to do. “Very good. A word of advice?”

Wide eyes looked up to him.

“If your father sees that you’re too squeamish to deliver a message in the stables and force someone to come out to hear it, he’ll shout your ear off.” He was off without another word, the messenger boy left dejected behind him.

He traversed the long path from the stables to the castle doors, a scoff of laughter leaving him at the thought of what his mother would say about his bloody trousers. She was better than his brother, at least; she didn’t hold the same impossible expectations.

Scarcely a cloud wafted through the sky that afternoon, though it was only late autumn. Soon snow would flutter and pile up in the land surrounding the castle, and the odd few men would be seen shovelling out the paths and lighting the lanterns when the days got too dark. Lord Holmes thanked a guard that cared to open the door for him and entered the great hall. Every step echoed from every high corner, causing the few maids in the room to look his way. They each gave a lowering of their head in his direction and he forced a smile back.

As he turned a corner, muffled voices came from the library. He slowed his pace in curiosity, but he could make out no words, only the occasional hiss of an “s”. Lord Holmes knocked on the door after a moment and it opened almost instantly.

A man he recognised as Earl Watson stood between the door and the frame, looking in the direction of the study. “We humbly thank you for obliging us, my lady. We will visit again soon to discuss the–“ His eyes caught sight of Lord Holmes and his lips parted. “The finer points,” he continued, his voice no longer as jovial.

The lord bowed upon receiving the earl’s attention. “Your lordship,” he uttered. Earl Watson only nodded in acknowledgement before gesturing towards the study, holding open the door as he passed through.

Once the door closed, the man’s brow lowered. “Earl Watson is a proud military leader and an effective one at that.”

His mother stood by the window, her bright eyes glancing over to him once he spoke. She was a figure of unrelenting poise, her back never slouching. “That he is,” she said, smiling. Her warm expression faltered at the sight of the boy’s trousers. “Not the best impression, dear Sherlock.”

“You might have informed me that I would be meeting the Earl of Gwaron. Pray tell, why is a man with such a reputation for courage losing his words at the sight of me?”

She shook her head and looked off through the window. The garden was a short distance away, the flowers wilted and pathetic. They were going dormant for the winter. “I remember watching you plant one of those bushes. Followed the gardener all day, watching him like a hawk. That bright, chubby smile of yours when he asked if you could help...”

Sherlock’s brow lowered and he made his way across the study, his thumbs in his pockets. “Are you ill?” he asked with a smirk.

His mother huffed, smiling a little. “I’m quite fine, darling boy.”

“I’d be more convinced if you weren’t reminiscing and using such maudlin terms when addressing me.”

She heaved the softest of sighs, her focus faraway. Her fingers were intertwined and fidgeting. “You have been such a grateful son. You know, I worried, having heard stories of brother slaughtering brother over jealousy for the throne. When you were born I was determined to guide you toward other goals. It seems I’ve done well in that. Though truthfully I cannot tell you if it is due to my guidance or your goodness... but alas. That is neither here nor there.”

“But what is ‘here’?” he asked.

A few moments passed. Lady Holmes looked to her hands with the most sorrowful look he’d seen in years. She took in a wavering breath and fixed her gaze upon her son. “You are aware that we have been discussing an alliance with Gwaron.”

He nodded.

The woman’s eyes fell to her hands yet again and her fidgeting grew more agitated. “We are very close to finalising the agreement. When your father returns from Raverstead, the terms will be finalised. It is quite possible... nay, it is almost certain that one of these terms is a betrothal.”

His lips pursed as if to speak, but no words came. Sherlock’s eyes never wandered from their focus upon her face. It was not in a menacing stare – more akin to one of incomprehension. His eyes narrowed and he inhaled. His lips parted and sealed once more.

“Oh, darling, don’t look at me like that,” she sighed. “We knew this was likely, didn’t we?”

“Certainly,” he muttered, his brow lowering. He nibbled on his cheek then asked, “Say that this was agreed upon. What manner of timeline could one expect for the marriage? A year, two years?“

“Six months.”

His mouth went dry. “Yes, of course.” He stepped away from the window and made his way to the door.

His mother turned, her mouth agape. “Sherlock, where are you going? We must discuss this.”

“Whatever is there to discuss?” he asked as he pulled open the door. “In all likelihood, I’m to be married in six months to Lord Watson. Is that not everything?”

A puzzled look befell her. “Why Lord and not Lady?”

“Lady Watson is heir to the earl, and therefore indispensable,” he replied with a sullen grin. The door slammed against the frame after he released his grip on it.

 

* * *

 

In the few minutes he spent in the castle, the illumination of the sky had dimmed. A man in armour went about the grounds, lighting the lampposts inside the castle walls. Sherlock’s made his way toward the stables at an unhurried pace.

Victor pressed his lips together as the horsemaster, Keith, tutted over the saddles positioned on the wall of a box stall. The man drew a calloused finger over the leather, his shrewd eyes lifting to stare at the young lord. His face was tanned and aged beyond his years. “Have you ever worked at a tannery, Lord Trevor?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” came his courtly reply. His hands were clasped together and resting against the small of his back.

“Somehow that surprises me none.” Keith turned the saddle to face Victor and pointed to a part of the leather. “Do you know what that is?”

“Blood.”

The man’s eyes crinkled as he feigned a smile. “Not much gets past you, my lord.” He inhaled and eyed the saddle, giving a shake of his head. “When I was a wee boy, I worked at my father’s tannery. We lived in this little village and we never hurt for work, but I can tell you one thing: I’ve never been worked so much in my life than I have under you and Lord Holmes, bless your clumsy hides.” Keith snatched both of the saddles from the wall and started walking away, grumbling under his breath.

“Hold fast, Keith,” Sherlock called to the horsemaster. The man did as he commanded, none too pleased. “We’ll take those saddles from you. When my mother – or brother – inquires after my absence, tell them that I’ve gone to enjoy the festival in town.”

Victor’s eyes widened. Keith thrust the saddles in his direction and he took them. “I was unaware there was a festival,” he said.

Sherlock confessed, “I’ve only just remembered myself.” He looked down to Keith, who made a show of crossing his arms.

“Your wish is my command, my lord,” he muttered.

His lips quirked and he nodded. “You’ll be compensated for the inconvenience, you have my word.”

The horsemaster’s beard bristled and he walked off, a hefty breath catching in the chilly air.

Victor handed Sherlock his saddle and they each worked on fastening them to their horses, which were nothing but willing to be sent out on their second ride for the day. Sherlock was fixing a saddle bag when his friend lifted a lantern to light, then lowered it. “Haste is recommended. Lord Holmes appears to be in the foulest of moods,” he said, gesturing to a brisk-moving figure along the path from the castle.

He needn’t look to confirm it. Sherlock mounted his horse in a swift motion and began leading her out of the stables. “Light the lanterns after we’re well and on our way,” he told him. “Moonlight will illuminate the path for some time.”

The man tossed two lanterns into his bag and mounted up. By the time he directed his horse out of the stable, Sherlock had sprinted past the eldest Holmes. His focus turned to Victor, who met his cold stare.

He sucked in a breath and pressed a few fingers to his jaw, his eyes now on the figure of his brother sprinting through the opened gates on horseback. “Have a pleasant evening, Lord Trevor,” the man muttered. “I expect we shall see each other quite soon.”

“We shall see.” Victor brought his horse to a trot and then a gallop once he was past the gates. They closed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Even with the aid of the moon hanging in the sky, the two men struggled to make out the path upon which they rode. Once they were a sufficient distance away, they slowed their horses. Victor retrieved the lanterns from his saddlebag and began lighting them. They held them at their hips, and the light reached far enough to illuminate the brush that crept out onto the path.

With his voice just above a whisper, Victor spoke, “Lord Holmes will not be sending men after us.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “He didn’t promise such, did he?”

Victor laughed. “Indeed not. It was implied in his cordial good-night.”

He hummed and did not reply.

For half an hour, the only sounds along the path were chirping crickets and the clopping of their horses’ hooves. Lamplights belonging to the town of Hillford began appearing in the distance ahead. On either side of the path laid a few cottages and patches of bare land.

“Have you considered where we will be laying our heads tonight?” Victor asked.

“Staying at an inn is out of the question. Miscreants would consider our sleeping forms an invitation for robbery – and that is the very best of cases. I’ll purchase some supplies and we can make camp in the wood.” He looked over to his friend. “Is that suitable?”

He nodded. “That would be wise.”

Once they were but a short distance from the gate, excited whispers cried out from the ramparts. The guardsmen at the gate mumbled to themselves.

“The captain didn’t say anything about Lord Holmes coming to town, did he?” asked a young guardsman, his eyes wide in awe.

The other, his partner for the night’s watch, drew a filthy rag over a metal plate of his gauntlet. His eyes did not lift from his task. “Are you daft? If the captain knew any lord poofter was visiting, he’d be here hisself, offering to lick their boots clean.”

He did not break his gaze from the riders to stare at his partner. As they approached the gate, he gave a bow, his armour clanking in shivers. He’d just opened his mouth to speak, but his partner beat him to the chase.

“Lord Holmes, Lord Trevor,” he mumbled as he stood from his seat, tossing the rag in its direction. “Hope you’re not here to cause trouble.”

Sherlock’s brow quirked as he dismounted, his friend following suit. He kept a hold on the reins and stepped forth. “Indeed not. Has there been any?” he asked.

The guardsman scoffed. “There’s always trouble. None worth your concern.” He looked back to the other guardsman. “Suck up yer drool and open the gate.” The man hurried to comply. “Good night, milord.”

Sherlock nodded in reply, and the two lords led their horses through the town gate. Lit lanterns hung from twine affixed to adjacent rooftops and frayed banners wavered from lampposts. Celebratory whoops and hollers cried from the merchant centre, accompanied by the pounding of drums and skilled playing of an old fiddle.

“What is the occasion for the festival?” Victor asked. A gap between buildings displayed the clumsy dancing of a few teenage men and women near a fire.

“The upcoming winter. It helps keep their minds off of the hardships the frost brings,” Sherlock replied. He reached into his saddlebag and felt around until his fingers grazed across a leather pouch. He retrieved it and pulled a few copper coins from it, then secured the pouch to his belt. Sherlock held out the reins and gestured to a stable ahead of them. Victor took them with a nod and led the horses toward the stables.

Sherlock entered the small building next to the stables with a knock to the wood plank door. Burning candles stood on a desk a few feet into the shop. He waited patiently as footsteps travelled from the floor above.

“I’ll not tell you again, Richard, I don’t care how you dress ‘im up, I’m not stabling yer lad just because he hasn’t bathed in the past two moons,” cried a tattered woman as she stomped out to the front. Her eyes went wide and her cheeks pinkened at the sight of him. “I’m so sorry, milord, I thought you were someone else,” she said, her voice breathy and light.

“Clearly,” Sherlock said. His smile faded after a moment. “Is Theodore not well?”

The woman’s eyes grew soft and she shook her head. She held her arms across her ribs, touching her elbows as if fighting a chill. “He’s quite well now, I’d say, but no longer with us. A bratty stallion kicked out his shoulder half a year back, and infection nabbed ‘im. He passed away a month or so after.”

His focus fell to the desk and it took a moment to reach her eyes again. “You have my sympathy. Had I known, I-“

She smiled and held out her hand. “’Tis life, milord, and nothin’ personal. I sure appreciate it, though.”

He paid for the horses’ short stay and promised to pay another visit within the next few months. When Sherlock left, his friend was waiting outside by the door. “I’m sure you’re aware mead is being passed about,” Victor said, stepping off the rickety porch.

His brow furrowed and he stared at Victor a moment. “I had assumed so, yes. What is your point?”

“That we should not linger long. I have no doubt the anticipated war will have reached the ears of the commoners by now.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock breathed. They walked together to the merchant centre, the jovial shouting growing louder with every step.

All manner of people were scattered around a bonfire, with many young men and women skipping and dancing around to the tune of the music crying out from the fiddle. A few old men sat upon barrels, passing around a jug of mead that they had to tip with both hands in order to catch a sip. One passed it to another, who tipped so far that barrel beneath him tilted, turned on its side and tossed a man onto his arse. Laughter roared from them as he scrambled to pick up the spilling jug and turned the barrel up again.

They skirted around the edges of the market, eyeing the shops for any sign of being open. As they walked, the occasional commoner eyed them with suspicion. Most of them were already heavy with drink.

One of the young women from near the bonfire gasped and picked up her skirts, stepping over a couple empty bottles. She began rushing towards them. The two young lords took notice and hurried their pace. “That one’s open,” Sherlock muttered, pointing to a shop further along the arc of buildings. A dim light shone through the window of a general store.

“Lord Holmes, Lord Holmes!” the young woman called. Others looked in their direction and his lips pressed together in frustration. Excited chatter grew among the merrymakers. “Don’t scurry off, Lord Holmes, you’ll break my heart!” she goaded playfully.

They made it to the shop and Victor entered first, pushing the door open. A hand tugged at Sherlock’s shirt as he tore away into the shop. They both slammed the door together and held it shut. Rough knocking began vibrating through the wood. Victor took a plank from the corner and shoved it down into the crudely-fashioned slots on either side of the door.

With a breath of relief, Sherlock stepped back from the door and turned.

A man with scattered grey hairs and more wrinkles than teeth looked up from a large tome he had laid out on the counter. His eyes flicked to the window, where the young woman was gesturing wildly towards the door. He slowly moved from the stool and walked over to the window. His lips pursed as he drew the curtains. Dust billowed into the air. His unimpressed gaze turned towards the men.

“Our apologies,” Victor announced firmly, giving a bow of his head.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “We regret disturbing your shop on a night of celebration. We were looking to purchase some supplies for camp.”

The man nodded and made his way back around the counter. He touched chairs and a table as he went, his hands unsteady and his gait even more so. He licked his lower lip and pulled a thick book from underneath the counter, setting it there with a thud. The man’s bony fingers cracked the spine and he flipped to a page. He reached out for the candle, bringing it closer, and his eyes ran along the page a moment before he finally spoke. “I have a... a standard arrangement of supplies that you may find to your, your liking.” His voice was quiet and raspy, bumbling in a way.

“What does this arrangement include?” asked Sherlock. He stepped closer.

“A canvas tent, and of course all the ah, the supplies necessary to raise it,” the old man mumbled, bringing his thin fingertip down the list. “Bed rolls, a set of, of spare clothes, a good iron stewing pot, and some flint and... and steel.” He looked up from the book.

The men looked at each other a moment, then Sherlock nodded. “The arrangement sounds perfectly suitable.”

Sherlock paid for the supplies while Victor helped the old man drag them out from the back of the shop, bundling it all in a canvas bag. They had a polite back and forth over who would carry it out, which concluded once Victor brought up the fact that Sherlock was likely to have to shrug off the advances of whatever people still cared about their presence.

Upon exiting, they were surprised to find that the eager young woman had disappeared from the merchant centre and that the merrymaking had proceeded as normal. The fiddler was fiddling, the dancers were dancing, and the drinkers were drinking. They began making their way back along the arc of shops.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he scanned the small crowd that ignored them so pleasantly. In the moment he spared a glance for Victor, he understood. Victor’s face displayed recognition and his body tensed, his movements growing calculated.

“Sherlock-“

“I know.”

He stopped and braced a hand on his friend’s chest. “Here,” he said, cocking his head towards the gap between two shops. He ducked between them and Victor followed only a step behind, shifting the bag before him as they pressed between the buildings. Splintered wood snagged at their shirts and their boots dug into the thick mud as they walked.

“We should have thought to ask the shopkeeper if we could step out the back door,” Victor said, grunting as the canvas bag caught between the buildings. He gave a shove and it wedged free, smacking the other man in the back. “Apologies.”

He waved it off and paused once he’d reached the end of the narrow passage. “If we took that path, we might be lying in mud and spittle now.” Sherlock leaned out and surveyed the road.

Indecipherable slurs came from nearby, where they would have exited had they continued along the arc of shops. The voices were loud and words slung into each other as if each word was interrupting the one before it. Glass clattered, laughter erupted.

He turned back to Victor. “Drunk men, perhaps four or five. Too drunk to realise that we’ve gone off the path they anticipated.”

“We should avoid them all the same.”

“Yes,” Sherlock muttered. A moment later, he pursed his lips. “We may not be capable of escaping without conflict. The men behind the shop block the path we would need to take to avoid them.” He waved his hand in the direction to the four-or-five drunk men.

Victor took in a breath and nodded. “We shall confront them, then, and hope the confusion will be enough to give us the advantage.” He reached into the canvas bag and pulled out the iron pot, offering it.

His brow quirked and he took the pot from the man. “It will be best if I speak. Towards you, they will harbour no more anger than for the guilt of association. If you spoke for me, however...”

“Then let us move swiftly, and hope we needn’t pray for forgiveness.”

 

* * *

 

 A sense of calm settled as they walked towards the men. All five of them were slouched against the side of a shop, drinking from their bottles and slurring out their plans. One man, shorter and thinner than the rest, nudged one of his friends. His deep sockets held beady little eyes that stared at the lords. His friend paid no mind to his prodding, until he finally spoke up.

“Stop your jabbering, they’re coming our way!” he shouted, pointing towards them.

Another man, plump and soaked with sweat, looked to attention. “That they are.” He pushed himself from the shop and the boisterous laughter and shouting quieted. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, stepping forth. His yellow teeth peeked out from behind his lips.

“We came to see the festival, same as you I suspect,” Sherlock replied.

The sweaty man’s nostrils flared. “Curious thing to do.”

“Is it?”

“Walk around on a night uh’ jolly armed with a pot, very curious. Unless your friend there has the makings for a stew,” he said, taking a moment to glare over at the other lord. “That’d be just the thing, wouldn’t it? Sitting around a lovely bonfire having stew with the commonfolk.”

Sherlock let out a breath of laughter and shook his head. “A fine idea, but sadly untrue.”

“Too bad. It’d be nice to get a full belly one more time before your fancy men with their shiny armour trounce into our homes and herd all the menfolk off to battle.” His voice grew thick with saliva and hatred. He spat at the ground, then looked back toward his friends. “Didn’t your wife just give you a son just a couple months ago, Pidge?”

“She did,” the beady-eyed man said. “A fat, smiling little thing.”

“What’s his name, Pidge?” asked the man.

“Garrett.”

The man looked back toward Sherlock with steely, unblinking eyes. “Garrett. You remember that happy baby’s bloody name. And when we’re uprooted from our homes and we’re slaughtered by the hundreds in the middle of buggering nowhere in swamps and razed fields, and when hundreds more drown in the bloody seas, and when hundreds of us live to be the slaves of noble twats like you,” he jabbed a thick arm in their direction, “and when all you have to worry about is that your servants are too sad to mop the floors worth a shite, you sit in your fancy fuckin’ tower and you think of that happy baby and you remember his name when his fat melts off and he crumples, ribs pokin’ out from his skin, before he gets to be two!” The man barked, spittle flinging from his mouth.

Whatever their quarrel was, it was not the first time this man spoke of it that night.

Sherlock’s brow drew a shadow over his eyes and his hand gripped the pan handle until his nails were digging into his palm. “Will you let us pass?” he asked.

The man let out a blood-curdling roar and lunged for him, launching his body from the ground. Sherlock jerked aside, only to be caught by the man’s arm and knocked to the dirty ground. Victor’s eyes flew wide and he swung the canvas bag down, catching the man’s back. Not a moment later, he was tackled against the wall.

Gusts of breath tore out of Sherlock as the man’s hammy fists began launching into his jaw. After three pulsing strikes, he managed to hit the side of his head with the pot. The man howled in pain and jerked his arm back for another blow.

Sherlock swung the pot to deflect it and gripped it with both hands, swinging again. He struck the man’s shoulder and squirmed beneath him, snarling and swinging and smacking and his heart raged in his ears, and he became deaf to all the sounds of the world. Even when the man was no longer pinning him down, when the man was swinging at his furious arms, when the man began parrying and grunting, he didn’t notice. When the man faltered and the energy was knocked out of his body and head fell back and his eyelids fell, Sherlock thrust his arm back and a familiar sound rang out.

“He’s down!” Victor hollered.

Sherlock glanced over and dropped the pot. Victor was growling in effort as he pushed at a man’s bicep, his fist mere inches from Victor’s face. “Pidge” had his arms wrapped around Victor’s pelvis and he was pinning him to the wall. Sherlock rushed over and gripped the bicep of the man looking to punch his friend, shoving his foot against the wall as he tugged him back.

A low rumble rolled in the man’s throat and he turned to strike at Sherlock, who shoved him away.

“Stand down,” Sherlock warned him, panting. He looked over at Pidge. “Let go of him.” His heart was still pounding, impeding his thoughts. It would be effortless to continue, to turn and toss his fists again. He let out a steady breath when the two men heeded his words. He looked back to the ground.

The two men who hadn’t involved themselves were helping his attacker sit up. His eyes were open now, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Victor stepped from the wall and clenched his fist with a wince. His knuckles grew a stark white against the flushed skin surrounding them. “Are you all right?”

“Relatively speaking, yes,” Sherlock replied. He brushed his hair back from his forehead and closed his eyes as he breathed. His jaw pulsed in pain. “I believe we’re done here.”

They gathered the bag and the iron pot and began walking past. One of the men balled up his fist. “Don’t be daft,” Pidge muttered, shoving the man’s shoulder.

Sherlock rubbed at his jaw with a hiss as they carried on. Victor watched him and said nothing of his concern. They were lucky to leave the confrontation without a limp in their steps, never mind being alive. The men were drunk, but their number and weight balanced out that disadvantage. He watched his breath in the cool midnight air.

“Do you reckon we’re obliged to pray?” Sherlock asked. He smiled weakly.

Victor huffed with a shake of his head and adjusted his grip on the bag. “No. Those men are drunk and frightened for the future. It was inevitable.”

 

* * *

 

They collected their horses and rode out of town with haste, in the hopes of avoiding more quarrelling drunkards. The moon had not yet reached its peak when they reached Allermire, and they slowed their horses to comfortably weave between the trees. The crickets seemed all the more talkative without their amphibian friends, most of which had gone to hide for the cold months.

Both of the men could navigate the wood with their eyes shut in the darkest hour of night, with nary a gasp nor pant interrupting their breaths. Every deformed tree, every cracked stump – all were familiar landmarks to this second home. Yet as Victor glanced at his friend, he saw no sense of comfort present in his face.

They made camp in the little clearing they’d hunted in a couple hours before. Victor collected twigs and fallen branches for a fire while Sherlock sat at the other side of the clearing, field dressing their hunted hares by lamplight. When the fire started to crackle and flame spread to rest of the fuel, Sherlock returned and began preparing the meat in the cooking pot.

Victor worked on pitching the tent, pulling the canvas taut and staking the edges. When he brought out a mallet to drive the stakes deeper into the earth, Sherlock stared.

“We had a mallet and you gave me a pot to defend myself with?” He picked up the pot and waved it to emphasise his point.

The man chuckled and swung the mallet at another stake, the metal plunging further into the dirt with every strike. “A lighter weapon is easier to apply fatal force to. Unintentionally, of course. I chose not to let you take that risk. Taking innocent life would affect you greatly.”

“You are correct,” Sherlock muttered after a moment. He returned his attention to the pot, cutting the meat into smaller sections. When he was finished, he gathered water from the stream across the clearing and set the pot upon the fire.

Once the tent was pitched, Victor sat down. His friend’s brow was lowered as he watched the pot. He nibbled at his lower lip a while and watched the man’s face for any sign that the clouds would lift from his mood. No such sign came.

It was only when the meat had been boiled and the water drained that Sherlock spoke again that night. He was sitting propped up against a stump, chewing the bland food slowly as he watched the flickering flames. Sherlock swallowed, and said, “You once said that whatever your personal gods, the world remains the same. Bad things happen to good people. Children die. Not all sinners who repent receive absolution.”

Victor frowned and turned to look at the man. “I did,” he said slowly.

He plucked another morsel from the pot and took in a wavering breath. “How do you believe when it changes nothing?”

The man cracked one of his knuckles and returned his gaze to the fire. Moments passed before he finally spoke. “If the universe is a library, the gods are reading their favourite epic.” He took another bite and chewed. “If there are indeed any gods, which is a terribly comforting idea, they have the wisdom to know that a place where only good things happen is a place destined to be plagued with suicide. Struggle and triumph – and, indeed, failure – are what make life meaningful.”

What troubles you so that you concern yourself with the gods?”

Sherlock popped the morsel in his mouth and braced his hands on the ground as he leaned back and looked up at the sky. The stars shone in a brilliant smatter across the night sky, some faintly twinkling. “I do not beseech the gods to whine ‘woe is me’,” he whispered. “I wonder why others, who have lost more than I have, still believe. Perhaps the point is moot, and there is no good answer. The belief is theirs to have.”

Victor nodded. “I needn’t speak my support.”

“And I needn’t speak my regard.”

He smiled and moved to stand. Victor took a bed roll from the canvas bag and lifted a flap to their tent. “Good night to you.”

A grim look crossed Sherlock’s face and he looked to his lap. He laid his hands there, his fingers intertwining. “Lady Holmes has informed me I am to be married off to secure the alliance between Gwaron and Ciraveth.”

Victor stared at his friend. His palms were clammy against the soft fur. “How certain is this?”

“Almost entirely.”

 “It was foolish not to purchase any alcohol,” he huffed. He tossed the roll into the tent and stepped around the fire. Victor sunk down beside him. “Do you wish to discuss it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Little to discuss.”

“As you like.”

They remained there in silence and watched the fire flicker and crackle for the rest of the hour. When all that remained were dimly glowing embers, they stood and began preparing for sleep. Sherlock rinsed his skin clean of blood and made an effort to scrub it out of his clothes, but the stains had set. After changing into the fresh pair of clothes, he left the rest to dry on a branch and returned to their camp.

In the tent, he spread out his bed roll and lay down, resting his head on his forearm.


End file.
